The Nine Lives of Sherlock Holmes
by PickeBicke
Summary: A year after the events of The Reichenbach Fall, Sherlock's trip to the cemetery becomes a little more than he bargained for. He thus returns to John in a very unexpected guise.
1. A Dedication

**A Quick Dedication**

I dedicate this fan-fiction to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for giving the world such amazing characters, to Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman for portraying them in their best incarnations, and to AeriaGloris10 for helping me word it all and get my thoughts together. She makes a singularly incredible old man! I also want to thank PixieFox over at _archiveofourown_ for inspiring me with her story, "The Case of Purrlock". And if Benedict and Martin somehow find this then...I'm so sorry, I don't know what's come over me.


	2. Chapter One

**The Nine Lives of Sherlock Holmes**

**- Chapter One -**

One year since the fateful events leading up to the fall that effectively rooted him out of John's life. It seemed as if it were only yesterday that the good doctor and Mrs. Hudson had come to visit Sherlock's grave, barely a month after his supposed funeral. Hard to believe it had really been that long.

Sherlock shifted against the tree he leaned on, the rough bark catching at his woolen coat. He knew it was stupid to be seen here in the cemetery, on the anniversary of his death, without even a disguise to fool passersby. But something had urged the former consulting detective to make the trip today, just as he had all those months ago. It was ridiculous, really. Why should he expect anyone to be there?

_But you know someone's going to be there,_ a small voice at the back of his mind breathed. _In fact, you know exactly who. You came because you miss him. You came because it hurt the last time, what he said._

And it had.

It had physically hurt to see John break down before the black marble tombstone, to beg Sherlock for one more miracle. One more, just for him.

"Don't. Be. Dead."

The three words had sunk themselves into Sherlock's heart, a heart that many had assured him he didn't have, and made his lungs seize involuntarily. It had taken an insurmountable amount of self-restraint not to clear the stretch of cemetery between them and give John that miracle. To remind himself why he had gone through this charade in the first place.

If he showed himself, John would be put back in danger along with Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade.

Until every last one of those snipers and all of Moriarty's

contacts had been squashed like roaches beneath his heel, Sherlock could not reveal himself to the few people in his world who mattered.

So here he was at half past noon, watching from afar as his best friend walked slowly through the line of graves, head held high and gait resolute. Just as expected. Sherlock debated moving further back into the tree line but quickly dismissed the idea. John's eyes were only for the smooth black tombstone he was approaching.

The man's face was expressionless, but even from this distance Sherlock could see his eyes still held that urge to follow and figure things out. He stopped less than a foot away from the headstone, opening his mouth as if to say something but then closing it again.

_Speechless before me, as always._

Clearing his throat, John shoved his hands in the pockets of his coat, his gaze darting around uncertainly. He was still waiting for a miracle, even after a year.

The thought made Sherlock bite back a sigh.

_Oh, John…_

Having found no miracle, John nodded his head at an elderly couple nearby before turning his gaze firmly back to Sherlock's grave. His back went rigid and he removed his hands from his coat to clasp them behind it.

He didn't move again for a long time.

He didn't even speak.

Sherlock vaguely wondered if this was what the good doctor had been like back in Afghanistan, standing at attention in the barracks.

At long last John shifted, unclasping his hands to reach out and place one on top of the tombstone. His eyes slid shut and he bowed his head, grasp tightening on the marble. When he lifted it again he seemed to be swallowing back against any words threatening to escape, eyes a little too bright and mouth set in a grim line.

Sherlock had to close his eyes briefly as John's hand slowly slipped from the tombstone.

Then, as silently as he had come, John was gone. Walking back through the cemetery at the same brisk pace to disappear into the crush of London traffic.

Sherlock breathed deep, gaze still trained in the direction his best friend had gone, and remained where he stood. Occasionally he would glance down at his watch as if checking the time. When precisely ten minutes had passed he stepped out from the tree line and strode over to his tombstone, barely sparing the old couple a second glance.

He glared at the polished black marble. The whole thing reeked of understated elegance. Probably Mycroft's doing, as John and Mrs. Hudson wouldn't be able to afford such an expense. Though it suited him Sherlock felt like it was missing something. But it was of little import.

It wasn't even real.

Unlike John, Sherlock felt the need to say something when faced with his year-long "death." The only problem, it seemed, was finding the right words. He'd never been very good at expressing his feelings.

"Well, now. It has been a while, hasn't it?"

No response from the gravestone. Not that he'd expected one, considering whose tomb it was. This was purely a rhetorical exercise, much like the ones he'd conducted with his skull back at Baker Street before John came along. Since he couldn't talk to the army doctor himself, this grave would simply have to do.

"I…heard what you said, the last time," Sherlock continued. "That…uhm, that you had been so alone before meeting me. Can't imagine why. Everyone who's met you would tell you that they liked you. I never had that much luck, but..."

He sighed, unconsciously mimicking John as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his woolen coat. "Truth is, I suppose your opinion was the only one that counted." He paused then quickly added, "Just a bit. Miniscule, really."

Sherlock could just see John's un-amused face glaring back at him and he found himself smiling.

"Oh, don't be like that; Mrs. Hudson has to be factored into this as well."

But the smile quickly faded from his face.

"You mentioned one last miracle, John…I am sorry that I cannot really perform one at the moment." The words were low, hardly above a whisper.

Now the tombstone mocked him. His name in gold filigree twinkled like a pair of maniacal eyes, cutting him to the quick. Sherlock had to look away, to try and compose his thoughts.

He began to pace.

"Don't you see, John?! This miracle you ask of me is the one thing I can't do!" Sherlock paced like an agitated panther before the silent grave, biting his lip. "If I reveal myself now then Moriarty will have won! His web is still wound so tightly around us!"

He stopped in a whirl of coattails, letting out a deep breath through his nose. "I can't let him win, John. I can't let him WIN..."

"You okay there, sonny?"

The worn, gravelly voice cut through the tirade and Sherlock whipped his head around to see the old man from earlier watching him with a soft smile. Behind him the old woman who could only be his wife knelt to place something upon one of the graves. Still distracted by his whirlwind thoughts the former consulting detective waved his hand about vaguely. "Hmm? Oh, yes, I'm fine. Fine, fine."

One fuzzy white brow rose at this comment. "You seem to be...having an argument with this poor Sherlock fellow," the voice continued. A withered old hand dusted with wrinkles gestured towards the mocking grave.

Sherlock snorted, giving a wry tilt of his head. "Yes, well, anyone will tell you he wasn't the easiest man to get along with," he snapped. Sherlock was panting now, but he had stopped moving, finally focusing in on the person before him.

He was a spry old man, clothed in a warm knit jumper and a thick coat to keep out the wind. Though his hair had gone white with age his eyes were still a clear and keen shade of brown. His face was very lined and weathered, but what stood out were the deep laugh lines crinkling at the corners of his mouth and eyes.

Automatically Sherlock's brain ran through a quick series of deductions, picking the man apart fact by fact. Just over sixty two, in good health despite his age, born and raised in London by the sound of his accent, still wearing his wedding ring (a clean one at that), and a laborer.

He had just finished his analysis when the stranger spoke again. "Ah, that explains the previous young man's lack of conversation, then." They remained silent for a few moments, studying each other. It was the old man who spoke first.

"Do you know him?"

Sherlock glanced off in the direction John had taken, face unreadable. He detested small talk. "...he was my friend."

His eyes slipped down to the tombstone once more.

"Our...friend."

"Was, hm?" The old man followed his gaze. "I see."

It seemed the word choice hadn't been lost on him.

The silence dragged on for a little while longer, and man shift awkwardly from foot to foot.

"Uh...my wife and I, we're visiting our son." He looked over his shoulder fondly, but his eyes were clouded with grief. His voice dropped a little as sadness began to creep into the words. "Got it in Basra a few months back. Terrible thing, to lose someone in battle, no matter how glorious."

"Yes, the army medal your wife placed on his grave says that quite clearly," Sherlock cut in. He shoved his hands back into the pockets of his coat. Why wouldn't the man leave?

"Meaningless thing, really," the elder continued, almost to himself. His shoulders slumped as he turned back to Sherlock. "Give anything to have him back, me. The wife's not been the same..."

He sighed, glancing back down at the black marble grave. "Your friend's been gone a year, but I'm sure it still hurts."

That got Sherlock's attention. "…how did you know it's been a year?" he questioned, brow creased into a light frown.

Chapped old lips quirked into a smile. "…Lucky guess."

Sherlock's frown grew deeper.

"Right...well, this has been an interesting chat but I have to get going." His answering smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "Got some roaches I need to exterminate."

And he turned on his heel, quite ready to just walk off and resume his hunt through Moriarty's spider web.

But fate, if one were to believe in such a thing, seemed to have different plans.

"You know that mutual friend of yours looked a bit lonely," the old man continued as if his partner hadn't just disengaged from the conversation. "Do you know if he's got a pet or anything?"

Despite himself, Sherlock paused mid-turn. "John?" He gave a small smirk. "No, and I don't think it would help."

"You'd be surprised," came the reply. "Kind of like a child, really. Give you a purpose, and they can be insightful in their own way. 'specially dogs and cats." His voice grew suddenly stronger, with subtle intonations of great wisdom.

"Dogs are steadfast, and the best friend man could have. A cat, however, can be aloof and might seem uncaring. But they can really latch on to a person once they get attached."

Sherlock could barely restrain himself from rolling his eyes. "Hmph. I suppose that would make me a cat then," he declared in a meager attempt to appear interested. Yet despite the tediousness of this information, the dark genius found himself beginning to compare the descriptions of the animals to himself and John.

The army doctor had unquestionably been Sherlock's best friend, almost since they'd first met. John's loyalty knew no bounds and he had proved time and again that he would risk his own life to keep Sherlock safe. Mycroft had said that John's therapist believed he had trust issues, so why had John chosen to trust Sherlock of all people?

Sherlock, the mad genius whose happiness and content relied upon the deaths of others. Whose boredom and anger knew no bounds. Who couldn't be bothered to shop for milk or food and instead filled the refrigerator with assorted limbs and organs.

Sherlock, who couldn't resist trying to prove he was clever, even at the risk of his own life.

Softly, unaware that he was thinking aloud, he whispered, "And would a dog be able to put up with all of a cat's idiosyncrasies?"

And the old man smirked, brown eyes suddenly sharp and honed in on Sherlock like an owl locks in on a mouse. "Well, that's up to you now, my friend."

And he reached out to squeeze the former consulting detective firmly on the shoulder.

That's when the dizziness started.

It was a strange, heady sensation, much like the one he'd experience so long ago when Irene Adler stabbed that needle into his arm. Sherlock's eyelids seemed to fight him, blinking slowly, not wanting to remain open any longer. As the old man stepped away Sherlock stumbled, almost falling across the faux tombstone before catching himself.

A woman's voice, soft yet creaky with age, managed to pierce through the dizzying haze at one point.

"Honestly, dear," he heard her chide. "Couldn't leave it?"

She sounded exasperated.

Everything seemed to be blurred, as if he were underwater and struggling to breach the surface. He could barely register the old man's reply, swirling gaze zeroing in on his retreating form as he went to rejoin his wife. Sherlock's brain made a massive effort to try and stave off the dizziness, and some part of him wondered if he hadn't been drugged somehow during the proceedings.

Even his throat didn't seem to be working properly. No matter how hard he tried he couldn't get his tongue under control to form even a few coherent words.

"Wha-?"

Then cold, crushing blackness, as the world splintered apart and Sherlock slid down into unconsciousness.

When sensation finally returned, Sherlock felt as though he were suffocating. A dull ache pounded between his temples and his limbs felt awkwardly long and gangly. He slowly opened his eyes, finding nothing but pitch blackness around him.

_What the...?_

Something heavy lay on top of him, obscuring all light.

He grunted, shifting, trying to throw it off. He could feel the stirring of a breeze along his cheeks, and the sensation made him turn to the right.

There!

Sherlock slowly began to crawl, dragging himself out of the darkness. Whatever had been over him slid easily from his body and he breathed a short sigh of relief as he emerged into relatively familiar surroundings.

He was still at the cemetery.

But as soon as he was out of that suffocating blackness, it was obvious that something was not right.

Everything rushed towards him, the grass suddenly vibrant and full of detail. Each stalk bent and swayed in the breeze and his eyes followed all of it. Despite the moon's placement signifying that it was, in fact, well-past midnight Sherlock could see his surroundings almost as clearly as if it were still high noon.

He looked up, the tree beside the tombstone teeming with life. A sudden movement caught his attention, and he raptly watched a squirrel move through the branches.

Sherlock opened his mouth, and he could _smell_ the squirrel. He could smell its warmth and musk and it was _mouth-watering_. Why couldn't regular food smell like that…?

He could hear its frantic pulse as it skittered and jumped from bough to bough like a miniature circus performer.

Pupils wide and trained on the furry creature, he began a slow stalk forward, his throat producing a strange sound.

He..._snarled_. There was no other word for it.

Sherlock froze.

That sound was in no way human.

It sounded...feline.

Sherlock took deep, quick breaths, and tried to process everything. It was so hard to not get distracted by EVERYTHING around him. Another snarl, this time one of irritation rather than fascination, as he forced his mind to focus.

He was shorter than the tombstone now, almost eye-level with the filigreed letters. Ignoring the constant pounding in his head he finally locked in on the reflection staring back at him on the polished marble.

It was a cat.

Blinking once, Sherlock leaned to the left, and frowned.

And the cat mimicked him. Frown and all.

And Sherlock had to remind himself to breathe.

That was _his_ reflection.

He _WAS_ the cat.


	3. Chapter Two

**_Author's Note- _**The three points Sherlock goes through via his mental checklist are what he says he does on the BBC website "The Science of Deduction". On the home page Sherlock writes:

This is what I do:

1. I observe everything.

2. From what I observe, I deduce everything.

3. When I've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how mad it might seem, must be the truth.

I take no credit for this, as it all goes to the dedicated BBC staff working on the show.

**Chapter Two:**

Sherlock's heart sputtered, his eyes going wide as he spun around, craning his neck to try and get a good look at himself. Every bit of logic screamed at him that this couldn't be real, couldn't be happening, that this situation must be some sort of dream or hallucination.

Panting hard the former consulting detective forced himself to relax, firmly counting out the seconds between his breaths until they evened out into a more sedate pace. Inside his mind he was steadily going through his own personal mantra, the one that was up on his website for the world to see.

_I observe everything,_ he thought. _Thus I have taken into account my shortened stature, my heightened senses, the ability to see in the dark, my reflection in the grave, even that sodding squirrel and the fresh green grass!_

It was more than a little uncomfortable to realize that as he continued thinking, some new part of his anatomy moved and he found his tail kinked irritably above his back.

_I also have a tail…_

He tried to put it out of his mind.

_From what I observe, I deduce everything, _he continued. His eyes were now half-lidded and brooding. After some deliberation Sherlock dismissed his original hypothesis of being drugged.

_The old man...he's the only suspect in this, but he hardly touched me. I can't find a needle or a dart anywhere, nor did I feel anything being injected._ He hadn't sniffed out any blood around him or on his clothing, either, so his bloodstream was most likely clear of any impurities.

_I may yet be hallucinating. Or it could very well just be a dream. _But a harsh, self-inflicted bite to one of his han- paws…proved beyond a doubt that this was in no way imaginary.

That left Sherlock with only one other viable option. Almost against his will his mind recited the last point of his method. _When I've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how mad it might seem, must be the truth._

Seeing as all the relevant data pointed to one conclusion, the dark genius groaned inwardly. This changed everything about his plans to thwart Moriarty's post-mortem hold on his, John's, and Mrs. Hudson's lives.

He couldn't very well continue his personal manhunt while stuck as a cat! The idea was preposterous!

Another groan escaped as he realized that the ticket he'd bought booking a flight to Bosnia would now be useless. Even if he somehow made it to the airport by six forty five tomorrow morning, he highly doubted any sane person would let a cat sit in with the passengers.

So, what were his remaining options?

He couldn't stay here. As soon as someone realized he had no collar they would probably cart him off to a humane society. And Sherlock couldn't very well leave his tell-tale clothing sitting around on his grave. Someone would undoubtedly recognize them.

First order of business would have to be getting each item into hiding. He could work out where to go later.

Whiskers twitching, Sherlock lay down, resting his chin on his front paws, and called up a quick mental map of his current location. There were trees aplenty, but no holes amongst the roots large enough to house any clothing. All the tool sheds were likely locked and too many people visited the small church on the grounds for it to be of much use.

A hiss rose low in his throat as he viciously tossed these options into his mental waste bin.

_If only there were a way to bury them!_

And, suddenly, it hit him.

Stupid, stupid! It was obvious.

His feline face twisted into a satisfied smirk.

Earlier on his way through the cemetery he'd noticed a partially cracked tomb, likely several decades old, its fractured surface giving way to a damp gloom. Its crumbling, overgrown state and the fact that there were no flowers or other offerings on display meant it had lain forgotten for quite some time. It would make a decent hiding spot.

_...I suppose the corpse wouldn't mind a little extra clothing..._

Padding carefully over to the items in question the former consulting detective grabbed his woolen coat between his teeth and tugged.

It was slow going, the woolen material catching on every twig and stone and making Sherlock wince as he tried to pry it free. The shirt he had been wearing still had its arms through the coat sleeves, and was thus being dragged along through the grass and dirt. Sherlock tried to crane his neck high enough to keep it from doing so but this only resulted in his nearly toppling over backwards.

Walking in this body was more difficult that it seemed, given the grace most felines usually portrayed when doing so.

His neck was beginning to ache by the time he dragged the coat and shirt over the edge of the forgotten grave, letting the wool drop from his mouth. Short, winded breaths burst from his lungs but he ignored the fatigue, nosing the material towards one of the cracks, shoving with is paws until the clothes slipped through into the dark. Even with his newly heightened senses he could barely see them lying against the top of an old coffin.

Perfect.

He leapt back down to fetch his trousers, pants, shoes and scarf. On his second trip he managed to wind the scarf precariously around his neck with a good deal of tugging, leaving his mouth free to drag along his trousers. Sherlock's shoes were easier to move but he couldn't get his jaws to hold both of them at once and thus had to make two more trips.

But, at least, as the footwear made a dull "thunk!" against the coffin lid, everything now lay properly hidden.

Breathing hard, Sherlock lay down against the grainy surface of the tomb. Time to work out where he could stay until this…situation…rectified itself.

The immediate answer made him furrow his brow.

221b Baker Street.

As soon as he had moved in, with John, it had been home. With Mrs. Hudson and her insistence that she was not their housekeeper, the various experiments all over the kitchen counter and other spots deemed inconvenient by the good doctor, their chairs and sofa.

It was one of the safest places he knew.

The thought of being able to live there again, even like this, made his breath catch.

_No one would recognize you, _his mind rationalized. _After all,_ you _hardly recognize yourself!_

It would take some convincing for John and Mrs. Hudson to take him in. Neither had expressed much interest in having a pet before, though Sherlock knew the landlady had owned a cat during her marriage.

It was time to act...cute.

The word sent a shudder down his supple spine, causing the dark, wavy fur there to bristle.

As a man this wouldn't have been too difficult. Sherlock prided himself on his acting skills. But he wasn't familiar with this new form's shape and expressions.

From the brief glimpse he'd seen of himself in the gravestone's reflection, his angular features, complete with high cheek-bones and long, lean physique, had transplanted themselves into this new body. Though he couldn't be sure given the blackness of the marble it also looked as if the color of his eyes had remained intact.

If he had to hazard a guess at a breed he would say Oriental Shorthair, though his mid-length fur and its wavy texture gave him pause.

_Unique even now,_ he thought with a chuckle that came out as a chuff of amusement. _Can't believe I kept the hair._

But these facts, coupled with how his feline features still seemed to mimic his human expressions unconsciously, gave Sherlock a renewed sense of confidence.

Sherlock pushed himself to his paws, leaping carefully down off the tomb. He called up images of cats in motion, eyes half-closed, tail twitching.

One step; front right paw, back left paw move forward.

Second step, the reverse.

Tail, making slight adjustments as the rest of the body is in motion, balancing it out.

He ran through this all multiple times, gathering data, before putting all together and taking a deep breath.

Steeling himself, Sherlock takes a step.

Hiding his clothing gave him some semblance of balance but he is still a bit unsteady as he tries to properly coordinate his gangly limbs. Four legs are definitely harder to work with than two. He moves slowly at first, his stride choppy and erratic, forcing his mind to concentrate on which limb is moving when.

_Front left with back right, right front with back left, NO! Right FRONT not right back again!_

A steady growl began to percolate from between his lips as Sherlock continued to walk, having to keep darting his eyes from his surroundings down to his paws lest he misstep. It was maddening, being unable to master such a simple task!

_RIGHT! Good grief, it was your dominant hand before, why is it so hard to remember when to use it now?!_

By the time he rounded the corner of Northumberland Street, his steps were gradually smoothing out and flowing from one into the other. He could now spare more attention to where he was going than to whether or not he had used the correct paw, his pace increasing to a steady jog.

It had almost become second nature when he finally halted just outside the door of 221b. Exhausted from his trek Sherlock never-the-less managed to haul himself up onto the front step. It had taken him well over two hours to make it here, and his paws were aching.

He glanced up towards the flat's windows, craning his neck. No lights shone from inside; obvious. Both John and Mrs. Hudson were probably sound asleep. Shuffling his paws on the hard concrete Sherlock estimated that it would take at least another five or six hours, if not more after he factored in showering time and breakfast, before either John or the landlady woke and came outside.

With a sigh the former consulting detective flopped onto his side, curling into the fetal position. The frigid London air ruffled his fur. This was going to be a long night.

But Sherlock was nothing if not patient. _Treat this as just another case,_ he told himself. He could wait for hours for murderers to show themselves at a location while he sat in some secluded little shop or restaurant.

He could do this, too.

So, the night wore on.

Sherlock's breath began to crystallize in the air, coating his whiskers and muzzle in a fine, cool mist. He wiped at them irritably with a front paw.

The wind increased in speed, making him shudder. He growled and curled his body up tighter, slapping his tail over his paws to keep them warm. He told himself it helped.

Then his eyelids began to droop.

He could feel himself beginning to slip away, the cloying hands of sleep trying to drag him down into slumber. It was no wonder, really, he'd only slept for a grand total of eight hours over the last three days.

Sherlock shoved the fatigue away. He didn't have time to sleep. He needed to stay awake, to focus.

But the drowsiness returned with vigor. Every time he blinked the dark genius found it harder and harder to pry his eyes open.

With a weary hiss of annoyance, Sherlock tried to focus his mind on some coherent train of thought. Something solid. He settled for recalling all the elements on the periodic table, along with their atomic numbers and mass.

As the fatigue grew worse he even tried recalling their electron configurations and

_Ar: Argon; atomic number 18. Atomic weight of 39.948. The first known noble gas; melts at -189.3 degrees Celcius; 83.95 Kelvin. Electron configuration 1s__2__ 2s__2__ 2p__6__ 3s__2__ 3p__6 __…_

He awoke just in time to hear Mrs. Hudson's surprised squawk as she opened the door to head out for some groceries.

"Oh my goodness!"

Momentarily startled, Sherlock stumbled back, falling off the front step with a soft thump. His fur seemed to have clumped and frosted together overnight, and his joints ached from spending the night on hard concrete. Cursing his lack of control the dark genius scrambled back onto his paws, spitting with agitation when the landlady closed the door behind her.

No way for him to dart into the flat now.

Miffed that he'd missed this opportunity Sherlock straightened up and sat primly, tucking his tail about his paws. His almost colorless eyes scanned over Mrs. Hudson as she stared back at him. She'd lost weight since the last time he saw her.

The old woman's brow crinkled.

"Well, you look a bit worse for wear. Wonder where you've come from?"

Hesitantly, she extended a hand. Sherlock stared at it, brow quirking.

"Startled you, didn't I? I won't hurt you. Wasn't expecting a cat to be sitting outside my flat is all."

As the hand stopped just shy of patting him on the head, the former consulting detective realized she probably expected him to react like any normal animal. That is to say, sniff it gingerly and hopefully realize she meant no harm.

Curling his lip, Sherlock gave his former landlady an insulted expression. He was a man, for goodness sake, not some filthy stray!

But even he had to admit that without getting into her good graces, entry to the flat would be nigh on impossible.

So, inwardly balking at such a ridiculous gesture, he tilted his head and gave the appendage a cursory sniff. Reflexively his ears pricked as he detected the faint whiff of her favorite hand cream and the dish soap she must have used earlier that morning. _Interesting._ As he withdrew he was pleased to note a smile flickering across her soft lips.

"Aren't you a pretty one?" the landlady cooed. "A right gentleman." Slowly she straightened back up and glanced behind her at 221b. "I'd give you a bit of breakfast but I'm afraid I have nothing in the fridge right now. If you're still here after I come home from getting the groceries perhaps I could rustle something up for you."

She glanced back at him and the smile was wider. "Maybe a tin of sardines?"

Sherlock felt his whole body shudder and actually gagged at the thought of consuming any of those slimy, pungent little fish.

"Mmmmrrrrooooowwwrrr..."

And Mrs. Hudson burst into genuine laughter at what must surely be the intense disgust on his face.

"My, what a deep voice. Not up your alley then, eh? Stands to reason I suppose. How about a bit of chicken then? John always enjoys some."

He shrugged one lean shoulder. He could care less, really. He wasn't here to eat. He was here because it was the only place he could think of that might take him in until this…condition wore off.

If it ever did.

He frowned at the thought. It couldn't be permanent.

_Then again,_ he mused, _there are worse creatures to be turned into. I doubt Mrs. Hudson would eagerly take to a snake or scorpion._ The corners of his mouth twitched as he imagined the old woman dashing about the flat while he scuttled after her, brandishing his pincers menacingly.

Mrs. Hudson's voice broke into his reverie.

"I'll be off now, dear, but I'll be back. Don't stray too far if you want that chicken."

Blinking, Sherlock found that the landlady had already begun trundling down the street, clutching her scarf tight about her neck. He huffed in exasperation. It would take her at least two hours to get back. More if she ended up buying too much and had a hard time carrying it thanks to her bad hip.

The dark genius found himself glancing up at the windows of 221b. Still no light. John must have gotten back from a night shift; he rarely slept this late otherwise.

Resigning himself to more waiting Sherlock padded back to the doorstep and hopped up. He'd be a bit more prepared this time if John came out. Maybe he could even sneak inside if he was careful enough.

The wait wasn't so bad this time round. The night's chill had dissipated, leaving the morning air brisk and crisp. His thick fur managed to take the edge off the cold and he could feel the frost clumping it together start to melt. He didn't much like damp feeling it gave him but it was still infinitely better than freezing to death.

After and hour and half, Sherlock's ears pricked as the door to 221b opened up once more. His nostrils flared as he caught a familiar scent, all earl grey tea and soft cotton with a generous layer of antiseptic overlying the muskier smell of...

_John._

He raised his eyes to take in the familiar planes of his friend's face. The circles under the army doctor's eyes had grown deeper. _Didn't sleep well,_ Sherlock's mind provided.

He sighed.

For some reason Sherlock felt a strange sense of peace at having John so close, without having to hide. A weight he'd long ignored had lifted from his shoulders. His liquid crystal eyes met the doctor's dark gray-blue ones cautiously. The older man looked positively stunned, staring down at him with slack jaws.

He quirked a brow, willing John to say something.

Unfortunately it didn't seem as if his friend's vocal chords were in proper working order. Shoving his hands in his pockets the doctor shuffled awkwardly around Sherlock to step onto the pavement. The dark genius snorted, glaring at him.

"Um...hello there."

Finally, a sentence!

Sherlock inclined his head ever so slightly, narrowing his eyes. He had no real mode of communication to use in this situation. So he simply spoke as he normally would, even though he knew it was pointless. It was a habit he was unable to break.

_"Hello, John…"_

His throat became uncomfortably tight and he cleared it, causing John to start in surprise. They continued to watch each other from a safe distance, with his old flat-mate glancing uncomfortably from side to side.

"Right. Suppose you're looking for some food or something. You won't find any here so just..." John made a vague dismissing gesture. "Go try somewhere else."

Sherlock's glare sharpened.

_"I only just got here, John. Are you already throwing me out?"_

He sat up straighter and lifted his chin, wishing he still had his old height so he could glare down his nose properly at his flat-mate.

_"I'm not leaving, so you're just wasting your time and breath. Besides,"_ he meowed with a smirk. _"Mrs. Hudson promised me some chicken."_

John just glared back at him, clearly not understanding the rumbling meows coming out of his throat. Sherlock watched in mild amusement as the doctor made a firm shooing motion with his arms.

"Go on, I already told you once," he grumbled. "I have work to be getting on with and you're a distraction I don't need."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Like he hadn't heard that one before.

He opened his mouth to retort, too used to this type of argument, when the rustling of bags and the clink of cans made both him and John look down the street. The doctor immediately rushed over to help Mrs. Hudson as she came puffing up to the door, arms loaded with the promised groceries.

"Nice to see you up, John, than you!" the old woman huffed. "Off to the hospital?"

John gave a forced smile, pushing the door open and carrying the bags into the hall. "Yes, in a bit." Once that was done he raised a hand and pointed accusingly at Sherlock. "What is this?"

Mrs. Hudson turned from where she was sorting the cans and smiled. "A cat!" The former consulting detective had to chuckle at her forthright attitude. "Poor thing was sitting out in the cold this morning. Here, I brought it some chicken."

"Wait, no, don't feed it." John quickly intercepted her when she would have reached for one of the wrapped parcels amongst the shopping. Holding the landlady firmly by the arm he moved her back towards the doorstep where Sherlock sat, waiting. "It's a stray," the doctor continued. "If you feed it chances are it'll just keep coming back."

Mrs. Hudson's face creased into a worried frown.

"But the poor thing must be starving!"

John sighed through his nose, raising his gaze to the ceiling. "Look, we can't save every stray in London," he said gently. One hand came up to rub at the back of his neck.

Sherlock frowned. Had he not even made it to bed last night? The thought of John collapsing on the couch after a day at in the ER and the graveyard made his mouth go dry.

"I know, but look at him! He's such a pretty thing." Mrs. Hudson didn't seem to be willing to give this up, for which the former consulting detective was grateful. She gestured fondly at him, a smile on her weathered lips. "And so intelligent. He's special, John."

Sherlock felt a smug grin split his face. If only she knew.

The army doctor now had his face in his hand, rubbing vigorously at his temples. His lips were pursed and he was breathing hard. "Yes, right, look. Just...chase it off or something will you?" A quick glance at his watch and John was moving out to the street once more. "I have to head off."

Mrs. Hudson wrung her hands, biting at her lower lip. "Well, can't we just take it inside?" She nodded vaguely towards the kitchen.

The response was quick.

"No. Please! Last thing we need here is a cat." John glanced at Sherlock again, who looked back blandly as if none of this mattered to him. "Who knows if it's housebroken?"

The dark genius felt his brows fly up. They'd probably be hidden beneath his curls if he were still human. Honestly, such a ridiculous assumption! He was appalled that John thought him incapable of proper hygiene, feline or otherwise.

Not that he intended to use a litter box. He was perfectly capable of utilizing a toilet no matter his form.

Even Mrs. Hudson seemed surprised. "John, don't be ridiculous! Most cats are good about using a litter box even if they haven't seen one before. It's second nature. Besides...a pet will be good for you."

The last part made his old flat-mate stop in his tracks.

"Wait wu-?" He turned to look at his landlady. "You want ME to take it in?"

When she didn't say anything to the contrary, John blinked at her stupidly. His answer was slow in coming, but no less forceful than before.

"No."

He shook his head, voice growing stronger. Sherlock almost growled with frustration. "No, no, no. I can't." He glanced at the cat gracing his doorstep, then back at Mrs. Hudson. "I'm more of a dog person, actually."

Sherlock watched John's tongue swipe once over his lower lip, a clear signal that he was uncomfortable.

Mrs. Hudson merely wrinkled her nose. "Oh, John! Dogs are so much messier than cats! They'd ruin the furniture! Besides, I have a feeling that this one is quick enough to know what goes and what doesn't." She smiled indulgently at Sherlock, then reached out to lay a gentle hand on John's shoulder. Her voice was oddly quiet as she spoke. "Give him a chance, eh?"

John stared at her for a moment. He looked confused, brow crinkled and lips pursed. "For gods sake," he grumbled. He glared at Sherlock, and his jaw set. "I-I just...I'm going!" Shaking his head the doctor walked at a brisk pace away from 221b.

He did not look back.

Mrs. Hudson watched him go with a trembling lip. "Ohh...I am sorry, dear," she whispered to Sherlock. Her hand shook as she reached into her grocery bags and pulled out the wrapped chicken. Tearing a bit off (headless of proper cooking and sanitation necessities) she held it out to Sherlock with a quivering smile. "He's been through a lot lately."

The former consulting detective, for once deciding to drop his aloof air, took it tentatively between his teeth. Almost as soon as the meat touched his tongue he found himself salivating, a rough growl wrenched from his throat as his body finally worked out just how hungry he was. Although Sherlock balked at the prospect of eating raw meat, his new body felt no such qualms.

Within moments he lay crouched beside the chicken, tearing into it while one paw speared it with his claws. It tasted good. Far better than it looked at any rate, considering the gamey, goose-pimpled skin and blood.

He licked his lips. The growl morphed into a purr as his stomach settled, accepting the food.

By the time he'd finished, the door to 221b had shut on him again, leaving him with only the pieces of gristle on the step for company.


End file.
